


Exile

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Horror, M/M, Trippy, Yet another Voldemort finds out Harry is a Horcrux fic, nonconsensual cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: Voldemort is in exile. Harry is dead. Only one of these things is true.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 11
Kudos: 105





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autumn_fog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumn_fog/gifts).



> Here's the darkfic I've vaguely promised for months. I hope you like it.

Voldemort paces. Paces some more, arms crossed. It had all gone according to plan, even better than planned, and yet here he is. Potter does not stir in his sleep, lying spread-eagled on the pile of blankets Voldemort had conjured. No time for fancy, impenetrable glass coffins. Such magic would draw attention.

For that briefest of moments, victory beyond his wildest imaginings had been in his grasp. with their savior dead, he'd thought, they would give up and surrender. His shoulder twinges where some sort of overpowered cutting curse had caught him as he fled.

He paces some more.

*

Harry drifts.

*  
The next morning, after an entirely sleepless night, Voldemort ventures out of his makeshift shelter. He tries to Disapparate, to return to Britain, but he ends up just a few feet from where he started, every part of him aching.

*

Harry drifts.

He gropes for something to hold on to, but his hands seem to slip through clouds of feathers or smoke. He redoubles his search with sudden desperation, but it does no good. He continues to drift.

Where is he?

He tries to sit up. He floats. He cannot raise himself. He cannot…

The world shifts about him, a molten chaos where nothing has corners, and everything moves in fits and starts.

Harry closes his eyes and leans further back (and odd that this he can do). He falls.

And falls.

He falls for an interminable amount of time. There is no point by which to measure distance, but he knows it must be miles.

Time is meaningless. Maybe it has always been.

He falls and falls until he is wrenched to a halt by a hook about his chest (or his soul, he can’t say). He rises, and this takes no time at all. The world solidifies around him, and he knows instantly where he is, although not quite who.

Because he's looking at his own face. It's slack, eyes closed, glasses missing. Sound asleep.

"Gaze upon yourself, Harry."

Vol— He can only think this word and flail. This is not his body; he can't move.

"Indeed." Voldemort's tone is smug. The turmoil Harry senses in his thoughts does not match. He cannot resist gloating, however.

"Look, Harry."

Harry has no choice, of course. He sees through Voldemort's eyes. Harry lies on his back, eyes rolling beneath their lids, his face pallid and drawn.

Voldemort seems to get bored very quickly of looking at Harry. He starts pacing. The room is small and bare, except for the mat on which Harry rests.

_Where are we_? Harry knows he should be panicking, but he can't quite find the impetus to do so, here in Voldemort's head.

"Somewhere no one will ever find you."

Voldemort is holding back, lying even to himself. Harry starts to put this thought into words, but then Voldemort tosses him back down into the endless falling, falling, the void...

He's asleep, Harry realizes, but then he's not thinking in words anymore.

He drifts.

When next the line is cast, Harry sees the room, unchanged. Except that he has been rolled over and now curls on his side, his knees to his chest. There is room on the mat for another. Voldemort settles behind Harry.

_No, what? Why?_

"You are mine. I can do as I please."

Harry tries to remember how he got here, but he can't find anything. He doesn't even know how long it has been since he was last awake…

"Oh, I can't show you that. You came to me." Voldemort kisses the back of Harry's neck. "But you have not been awake during the entire that I've kept you."

Oh, no. What else has Voldemort done to him while he sleeps? Harry wants to cry out, but then Voldemort's tossed him away again, and he falls.

He needs to wake up.

Harry has never been good at swimming, but this void, or whatever it is, is worse even than water.

This is all a lie, all an illusion, all just dreams. He's not falling; he's lying on a mat in a little room where Voldemort's holed up. He thinks of it, imagines himself curled there, and stops falling altogether. His surroundings solidify.

It's dark and quiet and stifling. His body is heavy, his eyes won't open.

There is a weight against his back, a hand splayed over his chest.

"None of that now, Harry."

Harry doesn’t think he's moved, but the hand lifts and the weight against his back disappears, and his head is lifted and his mouth forced open.

"This is very inconvenient, you know," Voldemort tells him. "I was nearly ready to leave."

Leave? Harry struggles to move, to open his eyes, and fails yet again.

"Don't worry yourself. Better for us both." And he is away again.

*

Harry wakes fully to the smell of something burning. It's sickly sweet and reminds him of Professor Trelawney's classroom. Is he at Hogwarts again? He hopes wildly for a moment.

But no. That's Voldemort's voice, murmuring a soft, musical chant. Harry can't understand any of it.

"Ah, you're awake." Voldemort pauses. "So much the better. I can hear you scream."

He paces a circuit around where Harry lies. The hard floor digs into Harry's back. He wrenches his eyes open—finally!—and sees incense burners at reg-lar intervals in a circle, the edge of Voldemort’s robes and his bare feet as he walks.

"What are you doing?"

Voldemort hisses one last, harsh word, and Harry feels as if a white-hot poker has been thrust into his chest. He's screaming before he thinks to try and hold it back.

"It won't be long," Voldemort says over him, his voice strained as though he, too, is in pain. "You are giving me the means of defying my exile, Harry. Really rather kind of you."

The pain peaks. Harry thrashes but cannot escape the circle. And then it abruptly ceases. Harry feels wrung out, exhausted. "What did you do?" he mumbles.

Voldemort casts a spell and the ritual elements disappear. "I have cloaked my magic with yours. Not an easy thing, you know. I invented it myself." His satisfaction is so overwhelming that Harry could almost mistake it for his own. "And now I shall return to Britain and ensure my victory. Your friends won't be able to stop me this time."

Harry has to get there first to warn them. He has to escape. He almost manages to get to his feet, but he hasn't stood in so long that the blood rushes to his head and he ends up on his knees. Voldemort stills any further movement with a casual flick of his wand, then sits beside him.

"You won't be coming with me, Harry. I can't risk that they'll discover you're still alive." He draws Harry to his chest with something a lot like tenderness. "I am the only one who need ever know, Horcrx mine."

Then he magics Harry onto the mat and retrieves a cloak from somewhere; Harry can't see where.

"Don't leave me here. I want to go back," Harry pleads. What else can he do?

"Sweet dreams, dear Harry." And Harry falls into dreams once more.

*

Voldemort Apparates. This time, it works.


End file.
